


Smash the Panic Button

by jirluvien



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Author Is Overly Fond of Italics, Fluff, Humor, It's Never Too Late to Have a Gay Crisis, M/M, another possible background ship if you squint, the +1 should be a separate fic probably because it went places, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 05:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14230032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jirluvien/pseuds/jirluvien
Summary: In which Tyler uses his considerable charm without even realizing it.Or: Five times Tyler Seguin caused a gay crisis among the grizzled veterans of the NHL and the one time he didn’t.





	Smash the Panic Button

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlineDaryen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlineDaryen/gifts).



> ...since it’s all her fault that I even got into hockey, given that she baited me with a strategically placed fanfic and that infamous photo of a naked Tyler Seguin and his rubber duckie. Happy (belated) birthday; may the Hawks live long and prosper, at least when they’re not playing the Caps.
> 
> I took some liberties with schedules and events attended but hey, at least some of this totally could have happened!

**1\. Michael Ryder**

The club was packed even before a bunch of hockey players burst in like—well, like bears. Luckily for them, someone had a useful thought in advance and booked a couple of booths, and that’s how Mike finds himself nursing a beer in one hand, a shot in the other, and a wasted Looch on his shoulder on a perfectly ordinary Saturday evening, surrounded by half of the Boston Bruins.

The mood is jubilant. They have a lot to celebrate: clinching a playoff berth is no small feat, even though it’s really just the first step to what they’re after. The club was the young kids’ idea—something about team bonding and dancing and hooking up while they still have some energy left to do it.

 _Seems like they have enough of it_ , Mike thinks dryly with a look across the floor at a group of baby Canadians attempting something that _might_ be called dancing if one was gracious enough, which Mike isn’t. He’s mostly glad it’s happening away from him, and also that Pev is dutifully making sure there’s a video of it. For posterity and also for blackmail purposes.

It’s late enough that some of the guys decided to try their luck at the bar, but Mike prefers to banter with those who aren’t either single or that adventurous, which is pretty much the same thing right now. He’s fine just staying here, even as Looch snuggles closer, already wiped out after the third or fourth round of vodka. (Why do they even drink the stuff when it could be used as industrial cleaner and they don’t have a single Russian on the team, Mike has no idea.) Tuukks is sitting across from them, eyeing Looch with a wicked gleam in his eye, and Mike fully expects Looch to be one of the guys who are _really_ going to regret this tomorrow. He tunes back in to Big Z sharing stories about Europe, even though he refuses to believe you have to learn how to make your own stick if you want to play professional hockey in Slovakia, and takes a sip of his beer. Life is good.

Mike should have known his relative peace and quiet paid for only by getting lightweight winger drool on one of his nicest t-shirts wouldn’t last.

“Hey, sad potato,” Seggy says, back for his beer while the DJ slows down for a minute. He’s had fewer shots that the rest of them—he’s not allowed to drink, technically—but it’s been enough for him to loosen up, and it looks good on him, this cheeky rookie who can’t and won’t stop, whatever he’s getting himself into.

Seggy grins down at him and it’s pure evil. “Come dance with us.”

And Mike might have a soft spot for the kid with the attitude, but there’s no way he’s ungluing his ass from this seat so he can go publicly embarrass himself. “’m not a good dancer,” he offers by way of explanation once he’s done shaking his head and leans back. “And that’s Mr. Potato to you, you punk.”

Tyler honest-to-god pouts, like Mike just told him Santa isn’t real. “Just for a little while. To celebrate. You can’t seriously want to spend all evening with old and boring here.” He nods at the rest of the company. “No offense.”

“Offense very much taken,” Tuukka hisses through his vodka (now Mike remembers—he was the one who first ordered it, the sneaky bastard), while Z simply arches an eyebrow in his infinite patience with the young and dumb and Andy outright cracks up, muttering something about how Segs has _no idea_ how very far from boring they are.

Mike just chuckles. “I’m not gonna dance with you bunch of apes, Seggy.”

“Fine. Come dance with _me._ ” It’s probably a request, but Tyler says it more like a challenge, like it’s a foregone conclusion that Mike will eventually give in and go with his brilliant idea.

…Alright then.

Mike stands up, gently deposits Looch in the corner, gives Tuukka a look that says not to do anything _too_ terrible to the poor guy, and goes.

The beat is stronger once he leaves the safety of the booth; he can feel it humming in his bones. He tries to point out that he’s not much of a dancer one last time, but Seggy simply drags him in the thick of the crowd, leaving virtually no space between them. Mike can feel the heat of his body, see the way Seggy beams at him. They’re the same height, and Mike should feel awkward, but what the hell. They clinched the playoffs, and when was the last time someone wanted to dance with him, even if it’s just for fun?

He’s just as bad as dancing as always. Seggy is a natural, moves fluid, weaving around other people, somehow untouchable. It should make Mike look even clumsier than usual, but Seggy directs him, little touches here and there, and then they’re dancing together. They even manage a little twirl and Mike can see some of the people around them laugh. He’s actually having fun. Seggy is happy, looks perfectly content like this, and it’s contagious.

And then the music shifts.

This is not a song they can goof off to; the beat is just that little bit slower, bass more insistent. This is made for grinding. They’re already pressed close but Seggy moves even closer, grin suddenly a lot more wicked. Mike should probably move away, but he doesn’t. Whatever Seggy has in mind, Mike’s not gonna chicken out.

Seggy grinds on him, hips rolling, one hand on Mike’s shoulder for balance, the other skimming Mike’s stomach when he moves away as much as the crowd allows before pressing close again. He’s teasing; Mike knows that; but it feels good. Too good. He’s never looked at guys before—he’s played with too many of them to notice anything except for bruises and possible hidden injuries—but something about Seggy _makes_ him look, makes his mind spin, the bass and heat and sweat and the hard planes of a body plastered to him throwing him in a vertigo.

They follow the beat, Seggy getting more handsy as the song progresses, still smiling like this is a dare, like he expects Mike to turn and run or at least slap his hands away. Mike soaks up the attention and allows himself to be touched. Seggy’s fingers on him are as strong and insistent as a trainer’s, but they leave an unexpected trail of fire. Mike pushes into it, traces their path with his eyes and with the goosebumps on his skin, hungry for it.

He follows the line of Seggy’s fingers, up his arm, over his shoulder, to the collarbone not quite covered by a shirt. Out of everything, this is what sends a jolt through him and makes him realize that this is real, he’s really standing here, swaying to the music, all but humping one of his _rookies,_ God, Seggy’s still just a fucking kid straight out of kindergarten, and this is so wrong but also almost transcendent, like something Mike has been waiting for without knowing it.

He doesn’t want it to stop.

He drags his gaze from Seggy’s exposed collarbone back up to his eyes, stopping at the column of his neck, his mouth, his cheekbones. He has no idea what his own face looks like, but apparently Seggy can read it, and it’s enough.

Seggy’s grin dies and disappears, lips parting like he needs to take a deeper breath. He hesitates for a split second and then instead of stepping away like he should, he hooks his arms around Mike’s neck. Even in the dim light of the club Mike can see how hooded his eyes are, how his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

His own hands find his way to Seggy’s hips, pulling them flush to his own. He’s hard, they both are, and they both know it, and Mike’s never wanted anything like this but he just might now.

Seggy—Tyler—is less than a breath away, and Mike’s hands are shaking. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of an abyss, and he tips forward.

Somehow, suddenly, Andy is there with an angelic smile and a hand on Tyler’s shoulder, gently forcing them apart. “Looch is looking for you,” he tells Mike. “I think you should probably rescue him from Tuukka’s needling and make sure he gets home in one piece.”

Mike takes the offering and flees. He turns around for just a second on his way to the booth, looking for—he doesn’t even know what. What he sees is Andy speaking quietly and Tyler’s expression crumbling like he just realized his dog has died. Andy slides his hand down Tyler’s back, comforting, and his whole posture is one of concern, like he’s looking out for Tyler. Like Tyler needs someone safe, someone to protect him from the likes of Mike.

Mike grits his teeth and goes looking for Looch.

 

He can’t look Tyler in the eye during the next skate. Their passes still connect, banter still works for the most part, but Mike just—can’t. He’s afraid of what would be looking back at him, and he’s afraid of what it could mean. They have a Stanley Cup to win; he can’t afford any distractions.

(He later hears that Tyler got chewed out by management for putting team dynamics in danger; guilt gnaws at him, but he chases it away. He has hockey to play.)

 

 

**2\. Corey Perry**

All-Star Games are fun, especially when your team wins. Corey gets a round of applause for his mini-stick breakaway (what can he say, he’s a people-pleaser) and even manages an assist and a goal in the game, waiting Elliott out and sinking one right home past his back. He feels pretty happy with himself.

It’s definitely fun to play with guys from other teams for once; good to see which lines click and even better to watch others crash and burn. Everyone is showing off—that’s what the whole weekend is for—but Corey’s eyes repeatedly stray to Tyler Seguin. He remembers last year’s All-Star Game, when they were once again on the same team, Seguin a wet-behind-the-ears rookie with shocked eyes and bad jokes. Just another new kid playing in the grown-ups’ sandpit.

The thing is—the thing is, he’s grown into himself a little, jokes still dumb but eyes sharp, posture the blasé smugness of someone who’s already been here and treating the gloves like they’re nothing special. Running his mouth around any of the guys like he’s played in peewee league with all of them. Kid’s making an impression, that’s for sure.

But whatever he does that passes for networking off-ice is nothing compared to the guy he becomes when he steps on the ice. On the ice, Seguin’s fucking _filthy._

It’s not just the way he glides, fast and effortless, almost dainty compared to the rest of them. It’s how he can tell where the puck is going and manage cross-ice passes that go straight through the league’s star defenders. It’s the way he can skate 200 feet and still give everyone a play-by-play of what’s happening, breathless and giggling in the mic. Corey’s lungs would explode after ten strides but Seguin apparently can’t shut up even in the middle of a breakaway. No wonder he doesn’t wear a mouthguard.

The shenanigans continue, two teams battling for bragging rights more than they are for the prize, and then Corey is watching Seguin fly down the ice. He fires a shot and collects his own rebound, feeds the puck to Loops who has to battle for it in the corner, eventually throwing it out blindly.

Seguin’s there to get it. He dangles, dekes around one—

two—

three—

 _four_ guys, hands moving too fast to track and puck all but glued to his stick, dancing around the other team like this is his prom. He shoots the puck right through the blue paint to Loops, and there goes the goal horn.

Loops gets the notch but Seguin is the one who made the magic happen, and Corey is breathless over the play—breathless and a little bit hard. Seguin has incredibly soft hands, and the way he moved around the guys—he was not so much clearing the traffic as he was toying with them, waiting them out and making a whole line look like fools. You’d have to be blind to not have your pulse racing after that.

Besides, there’s nothing strange about reacting to such a play. There are few things sexier than a great goal or even a powerful check sometimes. Corey’s even been known to appreciate a good save or two, despite the fact he’s not exactly fond of goalies as a rule. He’s seen guys sigh dreamily on the bench after a heavenly pass and promise blowjobs to dudes who scored the game-winning goal in locker rooms. It’s a part of hockey, he thinks, to show a bro you appreciate him when he’s contributing.

And whatever you might think about Crosby, Corey knows for a fact that some of his goals are jerkoff material for more than one guy around the league. Frankly, he’d be more concerned about those players who’ve never once gotten off to a Crosby goal, because they probably don’t have an inch of passion for hockey left in their sad, broken bodies.

All in all, it’s completely reasonable to feel it over a good play, and that dangle was a damn good play. Corey feels completely justified about it… until an overly happy Tyler Seguin crashes on the bench right next to him and demands a fistbump. Corey obliges, tracking the flush on Seguin’s face, the mirth in his eyes. His hair is a barely visible shade under the helmet, his neck exposed. Corey wants to run his hand over it, slide it down under the jersey to feel Seguin’s muscles shift as he reaches out for a bottle. He watches Seguin’s throat work as he takes a drink, sees the remaining droplets on his lower lip. Has a sudden urge to lick them off.

So, this is different.

He can manage. He adjusts his cup—semis are fucking annoying when you’re wearing a cup—and notices Tim Thomas glaring at him from down the bench. Fucking goalies, always sticking their pads in everyone’s business. He scowls, feeling embarrassed and somehow unsettled, and shifts his attention back to the game.

The vague feeling of uneasiness and discomfort is still there when they’re winding down post-game, jerseys and gear thrown all around the locker room, some of it ‘accidentally’ landing on other guys. More than one of them is still hungover, already on their way to piss-drunk, or a mix of both. Seguin is talking to Jamie Benn, exclaiming about Benn’s accuracy challenge. He looks happy, like Benn is the best thing he’s ever seen, grin wide and moves so, so smooth, as if he fell straight out of a Michael Jackson video and ended up playing hockey.

Benn ducks his head slightly, like it’s any fucking surprise at this point that he’s shy; he spent more time hiding behind that godawful hair than he did talking to his temporary team pre-game, even if Chara tried to hug some measure of social skill out of the guy when he drafted him. Corey thinks that it might be a Bruins thing—taking care of stray cubs, if cubs were huge dudes with hockey sticks and some serious interpersonal hangups.

Finally Benn mutters something, takes half a step aside and suddenly Corey is in the line of both Seguin’s sight and the adoration still all but flowing from him. It’s intended for someone else, but Corey still basks it in for the moment it takes him to realize that this is fucked up and for Seguin to realize that he’s looking at the wrong person while his prey is trying to quietly run away.

Corey goes by Benn’s example and leaves as quickly as possible. He doesn’t think about how that look burned through him like fire, how he wants that kind of approval not just from a good skater like Seguin, but specifically from him, what sort of appreciation that look would mean, if—if.

Once he’s safely back in his hotel room, he locks the door and calls Blakeny. He tells her all about the things he wants to do with her and to her when he gets home, listens to her moaning his name as she brings herself close to the edge. He strokes one off, and if between Blakeny’s wail on speakerphone and his hand twisting _just so_ , he has a clear, vivid image of Tyler Seguin’s stickhandling and soft hands and wicked smile, well, that’s normal.

No homo. Just hockey.

 

 

**3\. Travis Moen**

Being new to the locker room is always weird. Moe should know; he might have spent the last few years in one place for a change, but that first day is always exactly the same kind of awkward whether you’re new to the NHL or you’ve been around forever.

The Dallas Stars are no exception. Sure, Moe knows most of the guys from playing with or against them or both and everyone is welcoming enough. That doesn’t make the jersey color less wrong or the running jokes easier to understand. His first practice with the team is mostly trying to find out how the drills are done here and letting the coaches shuffle him through lines. He spends some time on the PK unit, which is good, but by the time the skate is over, he’s ready to crash in his hotel room and sleep forever.

Provided he gets through his shower and the inevitable bickering, the current topic of which seems to be Tyler Seguin’s self-proclaimed universal hotness.

“There are way hotter guys than you in the league, Ty,” Jyrki says, rolling his eyes when Segs is finally done listing all the evidence to the contrary. “Accept it like a man and deal with it.”

Segs just grins obnoxiously. “You wish you could tap this and you know it. One day I’ll be the main star of ESPN Body Issue and you’re gonna hide your copy under your bed and dream about it when you sleep in it all sad and alone.”

Jyrki scoffs. “As if. I’d rather moon over Val here. Just look at that sweet face!”

Val looks like he has no idea what’s going on, which is probably for the best, especially when Tyler clenches a hand over his chest and staggers back dramatically.

“You’re breaking my heart, man. Just stop fighting it and admit I’m hot. You know, 3% body fat—”

Goose throws sock tape at both of them. “Segs, I don’t care if you solve it by pole dancing, but shut up about your body fat. Like we don’t hear enough about it from the trainers.”

“Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t know what to do with it,” Jyrki fake-whispers darkly.

“Oh babe, so you _do_ think I’m hot, you just think I don’t know how to show it off? Should I give you a little tease?”

Jyrki’s face twists like he bit into something sour and moldy. “Please don’t.”

“Please do!” shouts Jordie Benn, of all people. Jamie looks slightly constipated next to him.

Various people join the ‘do’ and ‘don’t’ sides, until a new voice chimes in. “Bet you 20 bucks you can’t make Jyrki blush,” Kari says calmly, face unreadable, goalie stare full on.

That pretty much seals it.

Tyler drops his shoulder pads and stretches, still smirking. He slides his hands down his sides to play with the laces on his pants, biting his lip and fluttering his eyelashes at Jyrki, much to the D-corps’ amusement.

Finally he undoes the knot and lets his pants drop, stepping out of them with more grace than it warrants. Without most of his pads, he looks almost impossibly lean, and Moe can’t help but appreciate the way his underarmor hugs his body, how it shows off his thick arms and trim waist. It’s an accepted fact around the league that Tyler Seguin is a pretty boy, but it takes actually spending time with him to realize it’s a whole package: not just the way he’s built, way less of a bear than most hockey players but still as strong, but also the easy smile and the fluid way he moves. Moe is charmed despite himself.

Tyler props his leg up against the bench and runs his hand down his thigh, stopping at his sock. He takes the tape off, then rolls the sock down his leg carefully, like he’s a bride taking off her stockings. His shin guard is next and he leans over more than strictly necessary to get it off, almost folding in two, showing off the line of his back. He smirks at Jyrki again, but this time Jyrki just mumbles something to himself, flustered. Kari might very well lose his money after all; Moe wonders if Kari knew he would.

By the time Segs gets to his underarmor, the locker room is mostly quiet, as if held in suspense. Segs takes his time with his shirt, dragging it slowly up his stomach, pausing for a second before pulling it all the way over his head. Once the shirt is dropped behind him, he flexes, stretches his arms again to show off the lean line of his body, the tattoos on his arms and torso.

He turns, making sure everyone gets a good view, and then hooks his thumbs in the hem of his pants. He winks at Jyrki, makes quick work of his jock and the rest of his underarmor, and then he’s standing in the middle of the locker room, buck naked and completely unconcerned.

Someone wolf-whistles. Tyler strikes a pose, flashing half the team. His cheeks are red, the only indication that he might be at least a bit embarrassed after all, but hardly anyone notices because those are not the cheeks drawing the most attention.

“Catwalk!” someone yells, because of course it’s not enough that their number one center is giving them a free show; it wouldn’t be a hockey team if they didn’t milk it for all it’s worth just so that a few years down the line they can say _remember the time when Segs gave us a striptease in the middle of the locker room?_

Tyler is obviously up for the challenge. Moe expects him to make his way to the showers, but Tyler just surveys the room, expression thoughtful like he’s looking for something, and then he notices Moe.

 _Please don’t_ , Moe thinks, but Tyler apparently can’t read minds. He turns towards Moe, movements still unhurried, walking—no, strutting—across the room straight to Moe’s locker like he doesn’t have a single worry, like having all eyes on him is the only way to live.

It’s sensual—there’s no other word for it. Moe’s been to strip joints before but none of it came close to this: to Tyler’s absolute confidence in his body, already bruised after seven weeks of being back in the game, in the middle of a fucking locker room full of sweaty hockey players. It might have started as a joke but now Tyler’s commanding attention and nothing has ever been more serious. Moe feels desire wash over him like a tide.

 _Why me?_ He thinks desperately. _Why now?_

Tyler stop less than a foot away from him, body shamelessly on display. He takes a deep breath, chest expanding, drawing Moe’s gaze to the way the tattoo on his ribs shifts with it. He’s waiting, inscrutable until Moe glances back up at his face, and then he opens his mouth.

“You can look,” he says solemnly, “but touching costs extra.”

One second.

Two seconds.

And then Tyler’s cracking up and the whole locker room follows. Dillon is all but choking on the floor, Antoine accidentally kicking him while he’s trying to hold back a high-pitched giggle. Even Klingberg cracks a smile. Moe lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and joins in, not even trying to come up with a retort.

But there’s one person who doesn’t seem amused. Jamie is glaring at him—not at Segs, but directly at Moe. His eyes are thunderous, jaw clenched. Moe could swear he sees a vein pop out on Jamie’s neck, and it makes him stop laughing.

Moe knows that look. He used to have the same kind of murder in his eyes every time some fucker checked Amy out, back before he accepted that she could take care of herself just fine. Jamie is staking his claim, and for the first time since the trade, Moe wonders what the fuck he’s gotten himself into.

Tyler, finally done cackling, saunters away to put some clothes on and cash in since Jyrki turned adorably pink once the pants came off, but Moe doesn’t care—his attention in not wholly on Mr. Body Issue anymore. Thankfully, the movement makes Jamie break eye contact and Moe can breathe more freely. He turns around to fuss with his gloves and deal with this new bit of information, relieved when no metaphorical daggers seem to be piercing his back.

He startles when someone slaps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the team.”

It’s Jordie, beard twisted in a sardonic smile, and Moe has an almost hopeful thought. “Is this hazing?”

“What? No, no. That’s coming later. This is just Tyler.”

“He’s like that all the time?”

“Yep.” Jordie pops the ‘p’, raises his eyebrow in a ‘what can you do’ gesture.

“And…” Moe has no way to put this tactfully, so he just waves his hand in the direction of Jamie, who is currently looking up at Tyler from where he’s putting his gear away, all traces of the frown gone like it never existed.

Jordie half chuckles, half sighs. “Nope. Baby bro is too dumb.”

Moe refuses to believe that. He knows what he’s seen, and nobody can be _that_ oblivious to their own behavior.

Apparently Jordie can follow his train of thought well enough. “No, really. You’ll get used to it. It’s funny, in a tragic sort of way.”

If that is true, then Moe will have to be a lot more careful around the two stars of the franchise than he expected, at least until he finds his place on the team. And paying Segs any extra attention doesn’t exactly seem like a thing that will help his mental health. As if to prove this to himself, he glances at Tyler almost involuntarily; shower forgone, he’s buttoning up, bickering with Fiddler about something. The hair on his nape curls right above the collar of his shirt, tempting.

This leg of Moe’s career is shaping up to be… interesting.

He runs a weary hand down his face and resists the urge to bang his head against his locker. He’s too old for this shit.

 

 

**4\. Jason Spezza**

“Tyler, no.”

“Tyler yes! Dude, come on, it’s gonna be fun.”

“I’m _not_ helping you score chicks on our only free day in Prague, of all places.” Jason can feel two things coming: a headache and his loss in this argument. He makes one last half-hearted attempt at ditching Tyler. “Can’t you just go with Cody?”

Tyler looks at Jason like he just grew another head. “You want me and Eaks wandering the streets unsupervised? In _Prague_?”

And no, Jason really doesn’t. He might have only spent one season with the Stars so far but it’s enough to know that letting Segs and Eaks out together without actual adult chaperoning might result in an international incident. They’re usually well-meaning idiots, but idiots nonetheless. “You’re a menace,” he informs Tyler, just so they’re clear, and goes searching for his jacket.

“Please, you love me,” Tyler answers breezily, already dressed to the T and wearing his nice watch. He even combed his hair. Jason has no idea what he wants to achieve with all that, given that it’s early afternoon and the whole coaching staff would take turns strangling them if they went clubbing at this point of the goddamn world championship, but he’s not going to question it.

“Besides,” Tyler continues, “I need a good wingman. Like a former child model.”

Jason groans. He’s going to kill whoever put that little gem of information on his Wikipedia page.

It quickly becomes crystal clear that “scoring chicks” actually means walking around the city and chatting to random people about places to visit, because that’s apparently what Tyler does when there’s a good chance he won’t be recognized as one of the saviors of Dallas hockey. Even if they still mostly stop to talk to women—“There’s just something about European girls,” Tyler explains, like he’s suddenly an expert after half a season spent in Switzerland.

Jason takes a bit longer to clue in onto the fact that despite his charming smile and sudden deep interest in history and architecture, Tyler is moping. He looks happy enough to random passersby but Jason knows him, and what he’s getting right now is the quieter Tyler who emerges after a game that’s bad but not bad enough or every time someone mentions Boston—still pretty loud but nowhere near his usual level.

It explains why he was so adamant about going out with Jason to the point of apparently manipulating him with horror scenarios. Tyler might be friends with half of the league but he tends to keep to his own team when he’s down, unless Brownie or that asshole Marchand are available for snapchats.

Jason bumps his shoulder after they follow some lady’s directions to another statue or giant clock or whatnot. “Dude, are you homesick?” This trip isn’t that long, but it comes at the end of a grueling and disappointing season; crawling in a ditch and dying of exhaustion is a viable option for most of the roster at this point.

Tyler doesn’t say anything for a moment, which is answer enough. “I just wish we were still in the playoffs,” he huffs in the end.

And that’s fair enough. He’s not the only one. Sure, a gold medal would be nice, but compared to the Cup? Not even a competition. Hockey gods know they hauled ass this year and summer started way too soon anyway. Jason at least has his girls to look forward to; Tyler’s incentive to enjoy the downtime is probably not nearly as strong.

Jason can’t exactly give Tyler the Stanley Cup, but he can try to lighten his mood. So he just grunts something in response and waits for the next person Tyler decides to ask about another local must-see historic building.

It doesn’t take long before Tyler is stopping a cute girl that doesn’t seem to be in as much of a hurry as everyone else around them with an “Excuse me?” and a charming smile. She stops, because of course she does. Tyler Seguin is the prototype of a tourist that locals are willing to waste their time with.

“Do you speak English?” he asks.

“Yes. A little.” She stammers a bit, but waits patiently for their questions. Before Tyler can decide they absolutely need to see another long-dead dude on a horse, Jason butts in.

“Could you tell us if there’s any good ice cream around here?” It’s very much not in their diet plan, but Jason plans to burn through the extra sugar playing for gold. Tyler doesn’t even have the time to protest before the girl nods and starts to direct them to a shop two blocks away, like it’s only natural for two foreigners a head taller than she to want ice cream on a sunny May day. Jason supposes it is.

“What are you doing?” Tyler asks once Jason makes sure he got the directions right. He looks suspicious, like Jason is going to prank him or something when he only has his best interests in mind. Such a level of distrust would leave deep wounds on Jason’s soul if they weren't on the same team with one Jordie Benn and his ongoing prank streak, which makes any caution entirely warranted.

“You’re moping, so I’m cheering you up.” _Obviously and at great personal cost_ , Jason doesn’t add. It’s a big sacrifice to cheat on his diet plan for the sake of a teammate. He’s not exactly a teenager anymore, which, sadly, means he has to be way more careful with his food than all those damn kids he plays with.

Tyler’s mouth twitches—in annoyance or amusement, Jason can’t tell—before he points out the obvious flaw in his perfect plan. “But we’re not supposed to.”

As if Segs of all people ever accepts that as a good reason not to do something. “Shut up and let me buy you ice cream. You’re too thin anyway, how do you even have any strength left to hold a hockey stick?”

“You sure you didn’t misspell ‘steak’ there? Because last I heard, ice cream doesn’t build muscle and I don’t want to end up with a beer belly like you, old man.” Oh, chirps, the only real way to show you care. Joke’s on Tyler though, because Jason is in great shape per the team trainers, and he’s not the one losing a pound every time anyone so much as looks at him.

Besides. “As if a little ice cream can destroy that abs-carved-by-gods thing you have going on.” Jason waves his hand in the vague direction of said abs. “Stop complaining and accept your frozen cheering up, goddammit!” Honestly. At this point, the least Segs could do is to cooperate. At least he doesn’t look quite so down anymore.

Tyler smirks. “Fine. As long as it’s not vanilla. ‘Cause vanilla’s boring, right?” _Finally._ Though, really? Is there any good intention this guy won’t turn into an innuendo?

Jason has almost forgotten about the helpful girl when she giggles, obviously amused by their bickering. “Sorry,” he says reflexively. “We didn’t even thank you.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She dimples at them. “You two make a cute couple. It’s sweet.”

Wait. What?

First of all, Jason has been called many things on and off the ice, but ‘cute’ is not typically one of them. And second of all, _what the flying fuck._

Just as he’s about to open his mouth to correct this huge, ridiculous mistake, Tyler throws an arm around his shoulder and—drags him closer. “Don’t we? Well, Spezz here is like the ugly duckling, but I’m cute enough for both of us.” All his previous funk is apparently forgotten in the face of an opportunity to pretend they’re a thing. Of course. Jason wants to die. At least the girl looks like she’s having fun, even though it’s on Jason’s expense.

“I don’t know,” she grins and gives Jason an appreciative look. “He looks strong. I bet you like that. Have fun with your _ice cream._ ”

Jesus, it’s like this tiny, unassuming, pretty little thing is Seggy’s long-lost classmate from the Dirty Thoughts High School. Jason is horrified to realize he’s blushing, even as she nods at them and walks away without knowing the amount of ammo she just handed to Segs. Tyler’s amused chuckle vibrates through his skin and Jason’s t-shirt in all the places they’re still touching.

Jason is mostly confused, with a healthy side dish of freaked out.

Tyler pats his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation, I’d totally date you if you weren’t married. You’d treat me right, wouldn’t you?”

The fact that Jason’s first thought is _of course I would_ is probably more telling than he has the capacity to deal with right now. He just— he’s—

“I’m not _cute,_ okay,” he bites out, because that part at least he can make clear while the rest of his internal systems are still rebooting after being told that he visibly passes as the other half of a functional couple with _Tyler Seguin._ How would that even—no. Just. Better not go there.

“I think we already agreed on that, but apparently you have other assets,” Tyler laughs and slaps his ass. “Come on, boyfriend, didn’t you say you’re buying?” He’s remarkably okay with this. Jason’s going to get chirped so bad in the foreseeable future. By the team, because they’re going to find out in less than twenty four hours, but mainly by Tyler, who’s acting like Christmas arrived early. There’s nothing Jason can do about it; it’s like watching an avalanche start with a little ripple in the snow that will end up tearing down buildings.

So he simply does as he promised, buys Segs a jumbo sized portion of ice cream, and follows him around the city. Tyler keeps touching him even more than he usually does, even slipping a hand in Jason’s back pocket when he asks a random stranger to take a picture of them on some old bridge, which Jason would probably enjoy more (the bridge, not the hand all but groping his ass, and if Segs is into asses, that actually explains so much) if his brain wasn’t on a little personal roller coaster. Because they’re essentially on a date, and Tyler even dressed up for it, and Jason doesn’t mind all that much after the initial shock passed, and he’s only realizing it now.

He thinks, a little bit hysterical, that he should probably buy Segs a dinner before they return to their room.

Eventually they make their way back to the arena and Tyler drags him to the hockey shop. “We should buy something to remember this!”

It’s not a bad idea. This could be their year, after all—the team’s clicking, they’re making a quick work of their group, the medals are in their reach. And Jason is right in the middle of it with a couple of his teammates. Having a memento of it together with Segs, even after an afternoon of babysitting-slash-dating him, would be nice.

Tyler’s not done though. “I need to get something for Jamie. He should’ve been here too, you know? So we gotta, like, bring him a piece of Prague back.”

Right. For Jamie. Jason doesn’t know what he was thinking.

They circle around the store until Tyler comes across those two bunnies that serve as mascots for the championship. There’s a plush set of both of them, neither bigger than Jason’s hand. They’re wearing skates, gloves and scarves and each of them is holding a hockey stick. Jason might buy some for his girls.

“We should get these,” Tyler grins. “Jamie’s gonna love it.”

Jamie’s willing to love a lot of dumb shit when it comes to Tyler. “The big one totally looks like him,” Jason agrees. He slaps Seggy’s back and can’t help chirping: “Guess that makes you the tiny one, right, boyfriend?”

He makes sure not to sound bitter.

 

 

**5\. Patrick Sharp**

Patrick has a beautiful, wonderful wife. He knows this. Among all the achievements and rings in his life, the one he put on it is the most important one of them all. Patrick is one damn lucky son of a bitch and if the love of his life asks for anything in his power, he’ll do it, no question. (Except that one time she asked to share a seafood pizza, because there’s something profoundly disturbing about tiny octopi staring at you from a fucking _pizza_ , begging with their little dead eyes not to eat them. Patrick has limits.)

But other than that, really, anything. Even if she wants him to invite one of his new teammates over for dinner.

Which brings Patrick here, to the heart of his bright new Dallas home, watching Tyler Fucking Seguin use Canadian Politeness™ to charm the pants off his beautiful, wonderful, _bewitched_ wife.

You’d think that Canadian politeness is something Abby would be used to, not that hockey players are all that polite. But apparently she can take Patrick bringing her bouquets and breakfasts to bed and _generally having game_ , thank you very much, in stride, while Tyler bringing over a bottle of wine and presenting it with a bashful “I had to ask for advice but apparently it’s pretty good” is enough to make her weak in the knees. And not figuratively: Patrick can see the way Abby buckles just a little, leans towards Segs for a second before catching herself.

Patrick might be losing it a bit.

Maddie chooses that moment to come out of hiding; she’s been watching their guest from the corner for a while, but now she comes forward to introduce herself, uncharacteristically shy. Tyler immediately drops to his knees to be at her eye level and then _charms the fuck out of her too._

“Hello, Miss Madelyn,” he says. “My name is Tyler. It’s very nice to meet you.” He’s acting like he’s meeting the Queen of England.

Maddie giggles. Abby sighs. Patrick feels his heart swell with pride; he loves nothing more than showing off his women, and Tyler is right in acknowledging that Patrick’s daughters are clearly the best daughters in the universe, even though he hasn’t even met Sadie—who is currently napping—yet. But that doesn’t mean he’s letting any hockey player near them, ever.

“Seguin, stop charming my daughter, she’s going to grow up with a terrible taste in men.”

Tyler looks up at him, all solemn. “There’s no better taste than me.”

And that—Patrick has nothing to say to that. Not that it’s true, mind you. He just has so many chirps as possible replies that he can’t choose. Though Segs, obviously, is too dumb to realize that and takes the silence as a sign that he somehow won this exchange and is allowed to feel smug about it. His shoulders look really broad like this, even though he’s leaner than most hockey players—Patrick has repeatedly seen the guy naked and he still has no idea how Tyler can even play hockey without breaking in half every time anyone checks him.

But it’s the fact that Tyler is on his knees and looking up at him _like that_ that’s suddenly and inappropriately doing it for Patrick. His brain sort of freezes at the unexpected direction he took there; finally Patrick blinks the moment away and grudgingly admits that Segs might be a good repellent against other hockey-playing bros pursuing his daughter 12 years down the line. But he can’t stop noticing—the thickness of Tyler’s arms; the broad planes of his back; the easy, fluid way he moves.

Dinner is torture. Tyler talks and laughs and makes funny faces at Maddie while she’s still up and then at Patrick when the girls are asleep, conked out on the couch because Tyler was forced to interrupt his meal to read a few pages of the book they’re working on right now and had to do all the voices. (Maddie declared him okay, which is a level of praise previously unheard of.)

“Thank you for dinner, it was delicious,” he smiles shyly while Abby preens over her admittedly pretty great chicken ravioli. “I love home-cooked food, but I don’t have it often. I’m not exactly a chef,” he adds ruefully before launching into a tale about his grilled cheese special and Jordie Benn which for some reason prominently features pliers.

“Can we keep him? I want to keep him,” Abby says when they’re putting away the dishes. Tyler is still in the living room; Shooter waddled over for scratches and Tyler predictably lit up, babytalking Shooter about how good a doggo he is and gushing about his two labs. It’s adorable, like all those baby seal pictures every human is conditioned to love even if they don’t give a shit about pinnipeds, Patrick thinks helplessly. (He reads, okay, he can know words. Besides, everyone should try a crossword puzzle here and there and rage over google results for the full experience.)

“I think Jamie would want him back at some point,” Patrick answers truthfully, turning his mind away from seals. They of course talked about Jamie during dinner too, and Tyler’s face went soft and a little bit sad at the mention of their stout captain’s name. Patrick’s not touching _that_ with a ten-foot pole—not after spending years around the Tazer-and-Kaner soap opera that keeps on giving—but he can’t help viciously thinking that he and Abby would be better for Tyler. Level-headed. With extra dogs on hand. Whatever.

“You never give me anything nice,” Abby pouts. He swats her ass with a dishcloth.

Eventually Tyler has to leave. Luckily the girls are sleeping, because Patrick highly doubts they would allow such travesty to happen. Apparently everyone in this household wants to keep Tyler at least a little. Shooter even tried to drag Tyler’s shoes away (though that might have been to chew on them).

Abby hugs Tyler by the door. “Come visit again,” she says, and he beams at her.

“Trade your ravioli recipe for my grilled cheese?” He asks, and Abby looks like she’s actually considering it, which is wrong on so many levels that Patrick can’t help gasping.

“That’s wrong on so many levels, God, get out of my house and stop asking to defile my wife’s sacred cooking.”

He really doesn’t deserve the mean look Abby is giving him right now, not for defending the cherished secret of her culinary art.

Segs doesn’t even have the decency to seem cowed. _Kids these days, really, so rude—_ Patrick thinks, and maybe also says out loud, and then to his surprise he’s getting a Seguin hug of his own. He runs his hands down Tyler’s back, cops a feel, and just crushes the guy to him for a moment. Letting go is surprisingly hard, so naturally he gives Tyler a noogie as a finishing touch and then makes a kissy face as Tyler laughs and turns to leave, because Patrick is comfortable with himself in the knowledge that his strength is being a dick while staying just on the right side of lovable.

The door finally, _finally_ closes behind Segs and Patrick has to take a deep breath and, like, contemplate the universe for two seconds. He comes back from his instant meditation when Abby lays a hand on his forearm, giving him the patented wife look:  the one that means she not only knows what you did in the summer, but also possibly in your last six lives, and that she’s not going to take any bullshit about whatever she has to say in the immediate future. _Wives_ , Patrick thinks forlornly, and doesn’t even try his puppy eyes on her.

“You know, it wouldn’t be the first time we talked about threesomes—”

“No.” And that one’s a no-brainer, even if Patrick’s world rocked a little during this perfectly ordinary evening. Besides, the threesomes they discussed featured fewer dicks and more boobs than Segs could bring into the mix, aaaand here come the mental images. Eh. At least he can put those to a good use later and make Abby a very happy woman in the process.

Abby is supremely unimpressed by whatever she sees in his face. “You’d enjoy it.”

“Yes.” What, it’s not like he’s going to _lie_ to his _wife._ Honesty is (for the most part) the basis of a solid marriage. Besides, Abby knows everything about his past six lives, and Patrick can recognize a lost battle when he sees it.

It’s not like Abby can’t figure it out herself, anyway.

“Bad for the team?”

“Very.” So what if that comes out as a whine; Patrick is only human, and besides, Abby looks just as unhappy about that as he feels. They’ve always had a remarkably similar taste in people, though you don’t even need to have a taste when it comes to Segs; an eye and functional blood flow are probably enough.

Abby pats him on the shoulder in consolation and sighs. “Pity. He _is_ hot like a tin roof in summer.”

And there’s no arguing there; Segs is positively bitable in all the good places, and they both take a moment together to regret the risk they’re not going to take. It’s going to be their fondest memory of an adventure that didn’t happen, Patrick can tell. Still, there’s something he needs to put straight (or maybe not so much after all) first.

“I still have better hair.”

Abby’s not even pretending not to laugh at him. “Of course you do, honey.”

The things Patrick suffers for love.

 

 

**+1 Paul Kariya**

In retrospect, when Paul agreed to come up to Toronto for the Hall of Fame induction ceremony, he really didn’t know what he was getting himself into. He expected the speeches and the partying almost as much as he expected being one of the main spectacles; after all, it’s not every day a known recluse agrees to step back into his old life for a moment. He didn’t expect it to take a whole weekend, though it’s hardly surprising that the league would try to make as much of a show of a bunch of retired players as possible—one last chance to make some money from them. He is actually more surprised by the number of active NHLers that made it to the private and posh league-only party, given that the season is in full swing. No doubt some coaches are going to be very unhappy come Monday.

The one thing Paul _definitely_ didn’t expect is a tipsy Tyler Seguin flirting with him like his life depends on it. _Call me Tyler,_ he said and proceeded to try and get in Paul’s pants with admirable tenacity and effort. He’s still at it.

“All I’m saying,” Tyler announces grandly, “is that I’m great at stickhandling and I’d love to handle _your_ stick.” His grin is wide, eyes sparkling, and a frankly very compelling flush is dusting his cheeks. Paul is mostly amused, but also honestly impressed, mainly that Tyler almost managed to make a line like that sound sexy. That said, they’re still very much in public and he needs to deal with this quickly before Tyler gets handsy. Teemu would probably have a plan, but the traitor disappeared roughly three innuendos ago and left Paul alone with all… this. Fucker’s probably somewhere laughing his ass off, though Paul has no idea why he opted out of watching the rest of the trainwreck unfold.

Tyler smolders at him, and Paul can suddenly feel the full force of his focus, hair rising on his arms like he’s on the ice anticipating a hit from behind. They’re standing close now, pushed by the crowd to a quieter corner and somehow blessedly—or not—left alone. Paul gets a whiff of Tyler’s cologne and this guy is actually serious and Paul—hm. Paul might not be as opposed to Tyler’s advances as would be reasonable.

Just when he really starts to panic, said focus shifts somewhere past Paul’s shoulder, intensity gone and replaced by puppy dog excitement in less than a second. “O captain!” Tyler yells at whoever’s approaching and Paul feels momentarily forgotten; he’s surprised to realize it’s actually _disappointing._ Jesus, the lights and noise here must be fucking with his head.

He turns around to realize the cavalry has arrived. Teemu saunters up to them, all smirk and easy confidence. Trailing him is none other than Jamie Benn, thank Gretzky. Paul shakes his head, clears the sudden daze a little, and steadily ignores Teemu’s smugness.

Jamie doesn’t even bother with small talk. Apparently Teemu filled him in while he was dragging him over and, being Teemu, probably embellished a few things. That’s the only possible reason why the supposedly always polite and soft-spoken Jamie Benn beelines directly to his linemate and puts a heavy hand down on his shoulder before even acknowledging Paul.

“I’m sorry for whatever happened in the last twenty minutes. I’ll just… collect this,” Jamie says with a patented sigh of the long-suffering. Paul is immediately and painfully reminded of the hardships of wearing the C, especially when Tyler sways slightly and turns the whole force of that bright, megawatt smile on his captain. “You gonna manhandle me, Benny?”

Paul has seen lesser men all but keel over in front of that smile in the past two hours (it’s impossible not to notice Tyler working his way through a crowd), but Benn—well, if anything, he only looks helplessly fond. “All I’m doing is dragging your ass in a cab and making sure you drink some water.” The ‘you moron’ stays unspoken, but it’s strongly implied in the way Benn starts steering Tyler towards the door while he nods a resolute goodbye at both of them, turning his attention away from Tyler for just a fraction of a second.

Which is apparently enough for Tyler to both pout and forget all about his surroundings. “But I like it when you manhandle me. Especially since you’re the only one who gets to do that. Makes it better. Shit, this boyfriends thing was a fucking great idea.”

The world freezes.

 _Boyfriends thing,_ Paul mouths to himself incredulously, his levels of sympathy for Jamie Benn skyrocketing, even as he’s witnessing said Benn reach new and undiscovered levels of blushing. All hockey players are brats, but right now Benn looks almost too pure for this world, what with the bright pink spots high on his cheeks and the imminent panic as he visibly braces himself for incoming shitstorm while his apparently-boyfriend stays oblivious.

The look Benn gives them is half-mortified, but there’s also steel in it; like he would fight any and all of the newly elected Hall-of-Famers on the spot if they had something to say that he didn’t like. Paul can appreciate that in a man. He also knows what is coming even before Teemu plasters himself all over his back. Paul can tell Teemu’s doing another rendition of that smug little smirk; he can feel the curl of Teemu’s lips as it they were caressing the back of his neck. There’s something, Paul supposes, to knowing someone so well that you don’t have to see their face to be able to read them.

“Boyfriends, hmm?” Teemu hums in the general vicinity of Paul’s ear. “You’re damn lucky, kid. Scored yourself a real catch there. Better keep him.” He gives Benn an unsubtle wink. Benn responds with a surprised, doe-eyed expression that shouldn’t look this good on him, gears probably not so much turning in his mind as springing in all directions over not being sneered at, but before he can put together a reply—

“I know,” Tyler agrees dopily. “Jamie’s the best. Jamie. Jame. Je t’aime.” He dissolves into giggles against Benn’s chest, laughter shaking him so badly that he looks like he’s on the verge of nervous breakdown, which is at this point likely for everyone present _except_ Tyler.

Benn, for his part, is approaching beet red and most likely regretting all his choices in life. But he’s also looking at Tyler like he hung the moon in the sky and possibly created hockey on the way just so Benn could play on his wing. It makes something small and bruised clench in Paul’s chest; something that’s usually soothed only by the rhythm of waves, something hard that first bit into his flesh on days without light when every breath was a sway on the edge.

“Aww, young love,” Teemu coos, the asshole.

It’s only then that Tyler finally clues in to what he’s just done. He goes from being approximately five seconds away from climbing Benn like a tree to not only sheepish but also wary. Paul’s own amusement dims a little at the way Tyler’s smile cools, less sincere and more weaponized than moments ago. Paul would expect him to speak up, talk his way out of the awkwardness building around them, but he simply locks his gaze with Paul, unwavering. Waiting.

The moment stretches, until something important occurs to Paul.

“Wait, does that mean I’m on your approved cheat list?”

And just like that, the tension snaps, even as Benn chokes on air and honest-to-god squeaks. Tyler just grins, cocky again, giving both Paul and Teemu a thorough once-over. “Dude. You both are.”

Oh god, Teemu’s going to be _insufferable._ He’s already returning the look with a leer of his own, and the last thing Paul needs is Teemu and Seguin trying to out-extra each other while he and Benn are pulled along for the ride. He stomps on Teemu’s foot just when he opens his mouth to say something, keeping his expression as sincere as he can manage.

“We’re flattered, but we’re probably too old to keep up with you. Maybe you should move this party somewhere private?” He probably doesn’t even need to nod at the hand Benn (still wheezing) has curled around Tyler’s hip seemingly without realizing it, but he does it anyway to get his point across. You just never know with young players.

“On the other hand, _I_ suggest you create a distraction just in case someone was listening in just now,” Teemu says, completely reasonably, as if there wasn’t chaos enough already. “Preferably one where you’re at least half-naked. You know everybody here would love that. All these parties are so stuffy, tonight could really use a boost.”

Paul only has a moment to shoot Benn an apologetic glance before Tyler lights up like a Christmas tree once again. “Body shots! Come on, Jameson!”

After that, there’s nothing to be done but watch Tyler Seguin drag a protesting Jamie Benn away from the realm of relative sanity and propriety to the nearest selection of booze. Ah, to be young and stupid again. If this doesn’t end up on Deadspin, all of NHL will be luckier than it deserves.

“If the Stars sue you for causing a scandal, I _will_ testify against you. Don’t you have any sympathy for Benn?” Paul hisses, already knowing the answer to his question. Teemu is fucking merciless when he wants to be.

“Come on,” Teemu nudges him. “They won’t cause any real harm. Everyone here is plastered anyway.”

“You’re corrupting the faces of a franchise, Selänne.”

“They’ll live. Besides, it _is_ a distraction. From us. Come on.” He grabs Paul’s elbow, steering him to one of the little terraces and out for some fresh air—as fresh as Toronto in November can provide, anyway. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t use a break from all these people.” He pauses, hesitation so foreign on him that Paul zones in, tuning out the party behind them so he doesn’t miss what’s coming. The next couple of words are almost inaudible. “And hockey.”

Ah. Paul should have known—he read the interviews once he made his decision to attend this circus. He’s terrible at keeping up, but it’s hard to overlook the anecdotes, and Teemu’s childlike glee over their induction, even when he spends as little time around the league’s gossip as possible. It would be even harder not to notice the weary and succinct way in which Teemu sums up the reasons for Paul’s voluntary isolation, face tight, just dry facts like a grain of sand lodged deep in an oyster’s meat. It’s not like Teemu is wrong; Paul has been bitter for a long, long time now.

He decides to sidestep all that widely enough to cross the border, walking over the terrace to survey the scenery, his footsteps the only reply to Teemu’s words. It doesn’t work. He really should know by now that silence isn’t the solution. Not to hockey. Not to Teemu.

Silence, like hockey players, exists to be broken.

“It’s easier these days. Less scary to worry about. A smaller thing to protect.” Teemu’s voice is steady, toneless. Paul is reminded of the interviews. He would hate it, if he had any energy left to hate what the league did to them both in exchange for milestones and brilliance.

He doesn’t ask what Teemu means; they both know too well.

“Yeah.” He thinks about Tyler, so bright and vivid that everyone flocks to him just so they can bask in it, and about Jamie, steel in his eyes and a soft hand on Tyler’s hip. Then: “I’m sorry.” If Teemu wants to know what for—there’s a lot to choose from. How could there not be, after all the years, all the goals, all the miles? It’s impossible to be this close to someone, attack with them, breathe with them, align your heartbeat with them, without hurting and being hurt, carving a mark and feeling one’s own flesh part, mistakes kept forever like piercings of the soul adorned with jewels, made prettier but still there. Concussions can be battled, wounds left to scar, but regret—regret bleeds freely, dyeing red the moments past.

This, too, Paul doesn’t say. He wouldn’t know how.

He doesn’t need to. Teemu’s lips curl up again, no less wry but softer somehow, the way they always do when it’s just the two of them. “Don’t be. You came back from the exile for me, didn’t you?”

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? There was no persuasion this time, no only half-jokingly uttered threats about kidnapping; only the joy of being together, one more time and forever. Paul could have said no, could have stayed in the embrace of waves and solitude, but he didn’t. Instead, he braved hockey. The gentleness of Teemu’s words belies their harsh precision—that Paul might have been the captain but he would always follow, in the end, the person who matters. There’s nothing Paul can say to that; Teemu knows. They joked so many times over the years, that Paul was the one reading minds, but this is the bone-deep truth of them: Teemu always knows. It’s just his graciousness that keeps the truth unspoken, safely tucked away, the same way Paul holds everything of himself quieter than a whisper. The silence of an open secret stretches between them, down the terrace and further, over the lake. To the ocean.

“I’m glad you decided to come here.” Teemu doesn’t look at Paul, choosing instead to survey the horizon as if it holds the answers to every question in the universe, and Paul is glad. He doesn’t think he could stand the directness of that gaze, the pull that Teemu always wears like a cloak, familiar but no less effective.

“So am I.” It takes eons to say, but he’s both surprised and not to find that he means it. The breeze feels foreign here, not even a whiff of saltwater in it, but it plays with the ends of Teemu’s hair much like waves in a sea. Paul wonders about things missed and things lost and whether his beach house could fit in a guest for a week or a month or a year.

It’s a perfect moment of peace, at least until there’s a commotion inside the hall, a wave of wolf-whistling and raucous laughter and one or two “get it, Seggy!”s followed by a loud crash and what sounds like someone playing _Sexy Back_ on their phone.

Paul smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Paul Kariya, for preventing this from becoming my love letter to Tyler Seguin. I wish I watched hockey when you were still playing.
> 
> Title refers to [this completely unrelated story](http://www.russianmachineneverbreaks.com/2017/04/06/not-barber-braden-holtby-gave-nate-schmidt-his-mohawk), because Nate Schmidt is a perfect human being, even if he’s no longer a Capital, which is a tragedy. 
> 
> P.S.: Yes, the bunny mascots [are real](http://cdn.myshoptet.com/usr/www.kidtown.cz/user/shop/big/329\(2\).jpg). Their names are Bob and Bobek, which would make Jamie a Bob.
> 
> P.P.S.: Andrew Ference might only have 5 seconds of glory in this but my headcanon is that (much like Teemu) he's immune to Tyler being Tyler because they're one of a kind. Fight me.
> 
> BREAKING: Sharpy is retiring and now I'm sad. Patrick, you'll forever be my favourite lovable dick in the league.


End file.
